One Night
by HelenSES
Summary: What if Scarlett had awoken before Rhett left their bedroom after THAT night? Would things have worked out differently for them? Written from Rhett's perspective. Strong T rating in first chapter. NOT ABANDONDED. WILL BE COMPLETED BUT AFTER SIX MONTHS LATER IS FINISHED
1. Chapter 1

_So, having got slightly stuck on Six Months Later, and worried that I am boring myself as much as my readers, I have taken a little break and written something different. (Chapter 26 of Six Months is coming along and will hopefully be posted in the not too distant future! And I will finish that story too!) "One Night" really is going to be maximum 5 chapters – so much shorter –possibly even only 2 or 3 chapters long._

_Looking over the Rhett and Scarlett relationship, there are so many moments when if only something had happened, they might have had their happy ever after. This short story explores what might have happened if Scarlett had awoken just as Rhett was leaving her bedroom after THAT NIGHT._

_I have rated it T, as there is maturish content (but nothing too graphic). If people think this should be rated M let me know and I will change it. After this chapter, the content will definitely be T._

_Reviews as always are welcome – good and bad. I mean that genuinely. _

_Apologies for not coming up with a better title. I am pretty rubbish at thinking of decent titles for my stories!_

Chapter 1

He could only have been asleep for an hour before he awoke. The room was pitch black – as dark as the hair that lay carelessly across his shoulders – and for a moment he was disorientated. Once upon a time, seemingly in another lifetime, he had claimed this room as his own, or theirs, just as he would have claimed the bed that he now lay on as theirs. But now, it was most definitely hers. As it had been for the last two years.

He opened his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness and when he could finally decipher objects, helped by the full moon in the sky that was casting hazy illumination through the slits in the portieres, he looked across at the sleeping beauty that was lying naked next to him. She had fallen asleep with her body curled towards him and her hand lay possessively across his own hip. Gone was the Delilah of a couple of hours before and in her place, was a young woman, his almost-child bride, looking peaceful and content.

He studied her face for a few minutes and for a moment he kidded himself that the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned – as though in a slight smile. But as he searched harder, he could no longer be certain that she was smiling and if she was, it must have been because she was mocking him.

What the hell had happened last night? What had finally made him snap? Was it because she had finally succeeded in making him the laughing stock of Atlanta? Was it having to watch her in such close proximity to the man she really loved, knowing that if both she and that man were free, she would marry _him_ in an instant? How he had hated that blonde weakling tonight! Hated how _that_ _man_ could barely even look at him, the cuckolded husband, and how _that man_ could scarcely look at his raven haired, green-eyed temptress, the woman he seemed unable to let go of, even though she once again belonged in law to another man – just as she had done so, intermittently, through the last ten years. In another lifetime, he might have been tempted to call him out, challenge him to a duel, or perhaps he might have committed cold blooded murder. But he couldn't make Miss Melly a widow and the pathetic, spineless creature wasn't worth swinging from the neck for.

He had been walking back from the bank when he had bumped into Archie. "Captain Butler, I feel it is my duty to tell you something," the ex-convict had stuttered, gleefully and with malice dancing in his eyes. He had listened to Archie's story – or at least he had pretended to – but as soon as he had heard the words "Mr Wilkes" and "Mrs Butler" he had known what the content of the story would contain and anger had risen inside him. At that point in the day, however, he had had the self-control to say nothing other than to thank Archie for his troubles and move on home.

When he had reached the mansion he had built for his bride, he casually walked past the servants, temporarily silencing their gossiping tongues, up to her lair and found her cowering under sheets and a coverlet. What a white-livered little bitch she was. "Get up," he had demanded, immune to her protestations of innocence. She was going to her lover's birthday party, even if he had to drag her kicking and screaming. He wasn't going to let her ruin the future of his beloved daughter merely because she didn't have the courage to face the music. She pleaded with him, desperately, and for the first time, he had seen real fear and trepidation in her eyes. "You will go, if I have to drag you by the neck," he had shouted.

He had picked out a jade-green watered-silk gown, cut low and with a ridiculous bustle on the back for her to wear - a gown that no self-respecting lady of Atlanta would deem appropriate to wear. Then he had laced her, wishing momentarily that he was tightening the stays around her neck rather than around her torso.

They had ridden in silence to Ivy Street, her hands shaking, his fists balled tightly, and on arriving, had walked up the path to the porch. Together. He remembered how tightly she had clutched his arm, as if she was gaining her strength through him. He had somehow managed to swallow his anger for a couple of hours and had smiled, through clenched teeth, as the various ladies and gentlemen of Atlanta had greeted him and cast his wife a simmering look of contempt. He had never known Scarlett to cling so closely to him or stay by his side all night. There was none of her flirtatious coquette that would normally be present. She barely said a word – even to Miss Melly. He had done all the talking whilst she had only managed to force a vague, lifeless smile from time to time. She had needed him – he knew that. And if it hadn't been for their darling daughter, he would have forced her to face the hungry lions alone and would have revelled in it.

And then, when he had finally had enough of the charade, of the sickly punch that Miss Melly had served, of seeing the full evidence of Miss Melly's blind adoration towards her sister-in-law, he had told his wife they were leaving and, after escorting her out of the little house, had put her in their carriage and sent her home alone, whilst he had walked the mile or so to Belle's – for once not giving a damn who saw him. He had wanted to get drunk, mindlessly drunk so as to obliterate the memory of her, to purge the sight of her in her whorish dress and her scent and those intoxicating eyes that, God help him, he could never help but be bewitched by. And Belle had welcomed him and his distress with open arms and had soothed his furrowed brow as he had railed against the unfairness of his joke of a marriage. She had listened to him choke out his frustration, listened to him rage against his wife's and Wilkes's ignoble behaviour, whilst he drank shot after shot of whisky before she finally pried the bottle and the glass away from him. "Are you on a death wish?" she had asked him. "No, but I wish death," he had replied and from the murderous look on his face when he had relayed the adulterous tale, the whore couldn't quite work out whether he wanted to kill the wife or her lover or both.

After a while, when it became clear to the kind-hearted illiterate that he was not interested in sharing her bed that night, she urged him to go home.

"I'm going to divorce her," he had pronounced, when he had settled into a calmer mien.

"You can't, darlin'", she had responded. "You have your child to think about and besides, I've never heard of someone divorcing someone they still love."

He had looked at her, she who knew him better than anyone, she who he knew would have died for him, who had loved him for years in the same way that he wanted his wife to love him. "You're too wise, sweetheart," he had finally said, as he kissed her on her forehead.

As he had walked towards the door, the town's scarlet woman cried out after him, "She doesn't deserve you as a husband."

"I wasn't cut out to _be_ a husband," he had retorted, defeated, disillusioned, in limbo.

He had walked back to the monstrous architectural horror that he called hell and she called a home and as he began his ascent up the stairs, the door to the dining room – the store of the Butler liquor – lay temptingly open. Just one more drink, he thought. One more. And then he would go upstairs and lie in a bed next to the bed of his beautiful daughter. At least she has given me something, he thought briefly, before the image of her storming into their bedroom – when it had been their bedroom – threatening to abort his secretly longed for child – came flooding back. Bitch he muttered. She is a first class bitch. He ran his hands through his thick, black hair, feeling utterly impotent. God I hate her, he had said unconvincingly.

He had only been sitting in the dining room for a few minutes before she made her entrance, resplendent in the colour of a wrapper that bore her name. It was obvious she had not expected to see him and it amused him that he had caught her out. "Pray join me, Mrs Butler," he had mocked and then seeing her waver, his anger was stoked once again. There would be no cool indifference tonight. "Come here, damn you," he had shouted. For once, he was going to be in control and he didn't care that there was fear in her demeanour. Good, he thought as he licked his lips malevolently. I've been afraid of you for the last ten years.

He had forced her to sit and listen to his drunken ramblings before his accusations got too much even for her. "You are jealous of something you can't understand. Good night," she had announced but he wasn't through with her yet. He wanted to smash her, hurt her, humble her but God, he wanted her to love him, too.

When she rose from her seat, tossing her ebony tresses in defiance, he let her go and she walked out of the dining room and towards the staircase. But then, for the first time since the night he had abandoned her at Rough and Ready, he slipped. She looked so tauntingly beautiful and she was his wife and he could have her if he really wanted her. He had never before used power on a woman – he had never needed to – they had all willingly fallen into his bed or been paid to. He saw her clothed figure, her wrapper drawn tightly across her body, outlining her curves, her tumbled hair resting past her shoulders that, in a bygone age, he had loved to brush a hundred strokes each night. If he couldn't have her heart, he would claim what was rightfully his and have her body. He wanted _her_, his wife.

Suddenly, he was beside her. "This is one night when there are only going to be two in my bed," he had said before he forcefully pulled her head towards him, his mouth hovering above hers. She looked frightened. But he didn't care. He pushed his lips to hers and forced her to open them and then he tasted her. He had forgotten what that was like and her taste bolted him into further action. "I want you," he had muttered to himself over and over again, as she tried to force him off her. He swept her off her feet and started up the flight of stairs, crushing her to his chest. He didn't care if he hurt her, he didn't care if she would hate him after tonight. He would have her in his bed, even if she fought him every step of the way. He heard her cry out and then he heard her elicit a muffled moan of terror and hurt before he placed her on the landing and forced his mouth over hers again.

And then, suddenly, her body went limp and instead of pushing him away, she was dragging him closer. He felt her arms go tighter round his neck and when he bent down to kiss her again, her lips were already parted, as though she was waiting, willing. His hands went over her breasts and he tried to undo the clasp at the top of her wrapper before he impatiently tore at it, ripping the fabric and scattering threads and small mother of pearl eyes over the plush crimson floor. He picked her up again and stumbled towards her bedroom door, the room that he had been banished from when she had decided she didn't want any more children and didn't want him sharing her bed, because his coarse ardour was too much for her sensibilities. He opened it with one hand, whilst his other hand was working down over her body, and then he pushed the door wider and entered her sanctuary, before he kicked the door close again.

They were alone, in the privacy of the garish décor. The velvet surround would keep their secrets tonight, he thought, before he placed her against a wall. He stopped kissing her for a moment and allowed his eyes to rake her. He hadn't dared look at her in that way for years, scared that she might read him, scared of what the sight of the contours of her body, her luminous flesh might do to him.

He felt her trembling and he thought he saw her eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he wondered if he had hurt her, physically but then she started helping him remove the heavy wrapper, that hung around her shoulders and trapped her arms and under which was her nightdress. And then she pulled his face to hers again, and kissed him hungrily and just as feverishly as he was kissing her. "God, I want you," he muttered again and again before finally, because he could no longer hold in those three words that he had resolved he would never say until he was sure she would say them back, he whispered into her hair, "I love you." He wanted to shout his love for her out loud but he wasn't prepared to do that. Not yet anyway.

He looked again at her form, shielded by her simple nightdress and as he pressed against her, he suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to touch her flesh – and not through a cotton shield. She had rarely been naked in their love making before – despite sharing his bed for over a year, she had seldom allowed him to remove her nightdress. He had learnt that he could only successfully coerce her to remove all her dress when she had had one too many glasses of champagne or wine. But tonight, he didn't care. It had been so long since he had touched her, let alone seen her unclad, that as the memory of her nakedness coursed through his veins he began to undo the buttons on the front of the gown. When she didn't resist, he lifted it over her head, and she was suddenly standing there, defenceless, quivering, nude. She focussed her green eyes on him, those taunting, emerald eyes of a vixen that had manipulated men all her life. That had manipulated him for nearly ten years. "You too," she had whispered with a subtle nod as he brought his mouth back down on hers. Her hands went to his shirt and started their descent down his body, unbuttoning him, ridding his own chest of any clothing. He pressed hard against her, her body still trapped against the velvet wall, her breasts rubbing against him, and then he released her temporarily and removed the rest of his clothes before he felt her wetness and carried her to the bed, her bruised lips rarely parted from his own.

He had used her body over and over again, not caring if her soft moans were of pleasure or pain until finally, in the earlier hours of the morning, they had both fallen asleep, limbs entwined, sheets tangled, hair mussed.

When he awoke an hour later, he felt panicked. He listened to her soft, regular breathing and determined that she would not be awake for hours.

What had he said? He couldn't quite remember. His head hurt but as his hazy memory became clearer, he remembered telling her he loved her. Not once or twice but repeatedly during the night. In between telling her how much he wanted her, in between kissing her and taking his own pleasure from her. Oh dear God, what the hell had he done?

Had she heard any of his declarations? He was pretty sure he had said them too quietly for her to hear. Had he hurt her? Had she wanted him in her bed last night? Damn, damn, damn. Why couldn't he have just laughed off Archie's tale, as he had the numerous other whisperings that had reached his ears? Why had that particular rumour struck him as truer than any of the others? Why had it goddamn hurt so much?

He looked at her once more, her mouth still slightly upturned and then he gently removed her encroaching hand from his hip and sidled carefully away from her body – away from temptation and further hedonism. If he lay here much longer, he would want to kiss her again, touch her again, wake her up, take her again. He had to get away from her.

He moved the coverlet off his naked body, swung his legs around and got out of the bed. He needed to get out of here, just in case she woke up. Because if she woke up and he was still here she would laugh triumphantly in his face. Hadn't she always wanted him to tell her that he loved her so that she had that over him, so that she held the power in their increasingly warped and dangerous relationship?

He walked quickly over towards the door, where his clothes – intermixed with hers – were strewn all over the floor, and he got down on his hands and knees and blindly felt for his trousers and then his shirt and his undergarments. He pulled his trousers on quickly and as he buttoned them up, another fear flooded through him. Had he forced himself on her? True, he had definitely forced her to kiss him but…had he…God, he should be ashamed of himself. Why had he acted like that? Why? He should have stayed at Belle's last night, let her placate him, used _her_. But he had wanted his wife. His _wife_. Scarlett. The love of his life. The only woman he had ever loved.

He put his shirt on and found his fingers trembling. He had to get out. He had to think about what to do – away from here. He would go to Belle's. He could tell her what had happened and she could counsel him. Good old Belle. She was as smart as any woman he had known and constant too.

Suddenly, he had a strong sense that he was being watched. He turned and looked back at the bed. He hadn't been wrong. She was looking at him, her body curled, facing him, in the same position he had left her, her cat's eyes gleaming in the dark. "Rhett," she whispered sleepily. "What are you doing?"

_Let me know what you think! I wonder if trying to write two stories actually helps with writer's block. I am hoping it does!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, this is chapter 2 in this particular story which I wrote on the plane over from London to the US last night. Anonymous – sorry if you thought that I thought that Rhett thought that something had happened at the mill between her and Ashley. I obviously wasn't clear in my story. No – I know Rhett knew that Scarlett was never technically unfaithful to him. I guess, something made him snap that day – perhaps because she had been so stupid to get caught and he was worried that his carefully laid plans with regard to Bonnie were about to be ruined._

_Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing. Coco – have to give you credit for making me think more closely as to why Rhett enlisted. Lawdy – thanks for pointing out my error with regard to the time period between this night occurring and Scarlett kicking him out of the room. Alison – sorry, this is another very much "Rhett" chapter!_

_Miss Dixie Cross – if you are still out there – this is dedicated to you. I am so sorry that you have left the fandom, especially when your last story was unfinished._

Chapter 2

He stared at her, completely unable to move. Even in the dark, he could see her emerald eyes boring into him, freezing him, cauterising his movement. He swallowed hard as a thousand thoughts rushed through his head. How had she managed to wake up? She had looked so…so…peaceful when he had left her side a few moments ago and he had been as silent as a church mouse. She locked eyes with him but he didn't blink, in case doing so might waken her from her trance. For surely, she wasn't really awake. Or he wasn't awake and he was still dreaming. Yes, he must be dreaming. This whole night must be a dream. But then he heard the methodical tick-tock of her carriage clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock and then the sound of an owl. This wasn't a dream.

She yawned and stretched languidly along the bed, her modesty protected by the cream satin sheet that she was tangled up in. She was definitely awake. Damn, he mouthed silently. Damn. In all the years he had enjoyed women's company, this had never happened to him before. He had learnt long ago that it was much easier to leave in the dead of night, when the woman was asleep, rather than face the awkwardness in the morning, when there was nothing really to be said, only a few promises to be made that were never going to be kept. Belle had been the exception and Giselle, his Parisian whore. And before them, Lucy, his English aristocratic mistress, who had taken him into her home as a young, floundering twenty year old for one night – which had turned into three months – right under the nose of her husband.

He looked across the room to where she lay and then his eyes wandered back to the door. He could hear his own breathing and was thankful he was a good few feet away from her so she would be deaf to its increasing rapidity. Then he turned his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to leave this den and get to Belle's refuge. Quickly. He didn't want to get caught up with his wife, trying to justify his shameful actions. Or even worse, get caught up in her web again. God, she was beautiful, he thought in agony, as he took in the outline of her body, not entirely able to determine where her alabaster skin ended and the sheets began. But he had to resist the urge to move closer towards her. If he took even one step in her direction, he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to stop himself from taking her again.

"What are you doing?" she repeated, her voice husky with sleep.

"I'm…just going…downstairs," he stuttered, hoping that she was too fatigued to notice the hesitancy in his voice. She started to sit up, dragging the sheets up above her pert breasts. She was so sensual, but so unaware of it. Despite all her flirtatious talk and coquettish ways, she was almost virginal. She might have faced Sherman's army alone, fought off intruders and potential rapists at Tara, been married to a deviant like him for four years but she still retained a beguiling naiveté.

She yawned again and then the faint smile that had been present on her face disappeared, and he saw her eyes widen – as if she was remembering all that they had done last night. Was she blushing? It was too dark to tell and instead his eyes focussed on her hands wrapped round the bed sheets. She tightened her grip. He knew she was naked underneath those sheets and the thought made him…

"Are…are…you coming back to…" she said softly, leaving the sentence hanging. If it had been any other woman, he would have thought she was trying to seduce him.

"I'm just going downstairs to the kitchen," he said, adopting the same business like tone she often used when she was ordering around the servants. And then he inwardly groaned. What a completely inept response! Why would he be going to the kitchen at almost three o'clock in the morning? Why was she turning him into an ineloquent, blundering idiot? But it would buy him some time. If he went to the kitchen, he could think about what he should do and concoct some sort of plan. And it would give him time to try and rationalise his actions – and conjure up an explanation for her.

"To the kitchen?"

He swallowed hard, thankful for the distance between them. Thankful that she couldn't see his eyes. Just in case she had miraculously developed the power in the last few hours to read them. Read him. "Yes. I need a drink. Of water." Another lie. He really needed another whisky. The liquor from earlier in the evening had worn off and he wanted to regain his previously numb state.

"I…I…well, I have a pitcher of water here, Rhett," she said and she reached towards her bedside table on which a large porcelain jug stood and fumbled for the adjacent glass. Damn, he thought again. I should have thought of a better...

"It's not cold though," he said quickly. "I want something cold." Which wasn't untrue. He needed to get away from the heat. Her heat. And the stickiness that seemed to be pervading the room, that he could feel on his body, as well as the beads of sweat tricking down his legs.

She looked at him intently, as though she was trying to understand him, and this time he was sure he saw her blush. She seemed to colour right from her beautiful, bewitching cheekbones to where her raven hairline started and when he returned her stare she averted her eyes, as though she was embarrassed. But perhaps she was only playing the role of the ingénue. Perhaps this was all part of her ploy.

Finally, she asked, "Would you…erm…bring me up a glass of cold water too?" Did he detect an element of uncertainty in her voice? He had always been able to understand her so well but now he was doubting his own powers. What was she really thinking? At any moment now, he was sure she was going to throw her head back and laugh and laud his declarations over him. God, what a fool he had been! He alone was responsible for the situation he now found himself in and not for the first time in the last ten hours, he lamented the amount of whisky he had drunk. It hadn't even been _that_ good.

He didn't answer and she snuggled back under the covers. "If…that is… you don't mind."

"Certainly," he replied. He had to keep his answers short, to the point. In case she heard the shakiness in his voice. He had always managed to wear his nonchalant mask so well over the years but now he was fully aware that it was precariously close to slipping. What he really wanted to do was rush over to her bedside and shower her with kisses and breathe in her unique scent that he could never get enough of and caress her and stroke her soft skin again and…Stop it. He told himself. Focus. Think clearly.

"I'll be back up shortly," he said.

He groped for the door and as his hands tried and failed to turn the knob he realised he was trembling. Then, with a concerted effort, he opened the door and walked out of her room. Walked away from her. Walked away from the sorceress that had put a spell on him ten years ago.

As soon as he was safely on the landing, away from her prying eyes, he expelled a large mouthful of air. He could breathe again and he ran his hands up and down his trousers, vainly trying to remove their clamminess. Then, he descended the staircase which, only a couple of hours ago, he had raced up, two at a time, carrying his prize, his bride. On reaching the bottom, he realised he was standing in the exact spot he had committed his first crime against her. God, she had tasted so good, he thought as he remembered bending her body backwards and prying her lips open with his own. It had been over two years since he had kissed her properly and over two years since _she_ had been kissed properly. Even if she _had_ buckled and kissed Ashley – and he strongly doubted it - it would not have been like kissing him. She was born to be kissed and by someone who knew how – and that someone was certainly not the insipid Wilkes who didn't even have the backbone to take what he really wanted from her.

He walked past the dining room and as he did so, he thought about the numerous times they had eaten together in that room, in semi-civility, when he had had to bury his carnal thoughts and listen to her prattle on her about her business, or the children or that Clayton County white elephant, when what he had really wanted to do was ravish her, take her upstairs and force his way back into her bed. As he had tonight. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't snapped earlier. He should have been given a medal for putting up with her and her unreasonable demands for celibacy. Especially when she looked as she did, when she swayed her hips, tossed her hair as she did.

He walked towards the kitchen - a room he rarely entered but which was one of the largest in the house. He pushed the door open and made his way over to the sink. Then, he turned on the tap and let the stale water rush through the pipes. The gushing sound soothed his head and it helped him collect his thoughts. Perhaps he should just continue walking. Out of the house. And never come back. He could just slip on the boots that lay at the back door and walk the couple of miles or so to the station. He could disappear and never have to face her again. But he would have to take Bonnie and besides, trying to escape was futile. Sooner or later, he would need to see her, smell her, touch her – even if it was the touch of a cool, indifferent stranger. He could never really leave her, however much he might pretend otherwise. Even in twenty years' time, when Bonnie would most likely be married and he would be over sixty, he knew he could never properly leave her. She would always drag him back. She had cast her net all those years ago at Twelve Oaks and he had yet to find a hole in it, however much he had tried. However much he wanted to be rid of her.

After a while, he bent over the earthenware sink and splashed his face with water a couple of times. Then, he found a glass and filled it up from the tap before draining its contents. He repeated the action again. And again. Although he really wanted to maintain his semi-inebriated state, it would be safer to try and remain sober. At least until he had decided what to do and say.

Finally, he filled up two glasses and started back up to her bedroom, all the while his mind filling with what he had done to her last night. Had he ever behaved before like that? Yes, he had been slightly rough with women but his roughness had been borne out of desire, not love, hatred, hurt, and all the other myriad of emotions he had experienced since Archie stopped him on the street, less than twelve hours ago. He shivered slightly at the memory. He had had many women in his life – all but a few he had barely cared for, none he had loved – and he could have had a number of women last night. But they wouldn't have satisfied him. He had only wanted one woman last night and as a result, he had finally ejected himself from the limbo she had placed him in - ever since she had deigned – and _dared_ – to kick him out of their bedroom.

As he reached the top step, he remembered how her body had moulded to his, how she had pulled his face to his, as though some fire in her had been lit, and suddenly he wondered why he hadn't fought harder for her before. Why had he so easily submitted to her edict and given up on her? _Her. _His damned wife. A woman he had been to hell and back for, even before he married her. Wasn't she the real reason behind him enlisting? Wasn't she the real reason he had risked his life for a cause he didn't believe in, when he knew his side would be licked– so that she could be proud of him, so that he could prove to her Robillard mother and her rather endearing old Mick of a father that he was indeed a man worthy of the hand of their eldest daughter? Wasn't it all because he had loved her _so _much?

He stood still at the top of the crimson staircase and cast his eyes down the hallway and then back at the two glasses of water that he gripped in his hands and once again the thought of fleeing entered his head. He was poised on a threshold. He could either run to Belle's or walk into the room of the woman that he really wanted to be with and risk taking another sip from her poisoned chalice.

He sighed and continued the journey to her bedroom. Putting the two glasses in one hand, he reached for the door knob. For a moment, he wondered if she might have locked it – just as she had threatened to. Had she ever carried out her threat to lock it? He had never checked.

He turned the door knob and it creaked open. He walked in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and then he scanned the bed. It was empty and for a few seconds, he thought she had disappeared. But then he saw her by her vanity, her hairbrush in hand, still naked. She turned to see who the intruder was, and let out a small gasp before rushing for the safety of the bed and satin covers. "Sorry Rhett…I was just…" but she didn't finish her sentence and he didn't try and tease it out of her either. He had more important things on his mind than trying to belittle her.

He walked over to her bedside, his eyes drinking in her form, his heart thumping. The sound of gunfire had never sounded as loud as his heart did now. How had he fallen so in love with her? _When_ had it happened? But he knew when it had been. He had always thought that love, when it happened – _if _it happened – would creep up on him but he had been wrong. He had been struck by the proverbial thunderbolt that humid, steamy day in April when he had accompanied Frank Kennedy to the Twelve Oaks barbeque. As he had first laid eyes on her, he felt something he had never felt before. She was so confident, so precocious, so innocent that it was irrelevant that there were other, more beautiful women in the world. And when he found out her heritage – from a whispered conversation with a rather drunk Mr Tarleton – found that she was descended from the great, famed Robillards and then when she swore during a lover's tiff, he knew he had finally met someone who might cause him to break his rule that he would never marry. He had just never figured it would be so hard to get her.

"Here you are," he said, his voice even, unemotional, as he handed her the glass of water. She took it gratefully and gulped it down.

"Thank you," she murmured. As she turned to place the glass on her bedside he saw a subtle streak of reddish pink on one of her cheeks. How had that not come off during their earlier exertions? And then he glanced over to her vanity again and saw her pot of her rouge opened, lid on the side. What on earth had she been doing whilst he had been downstairs?

"Rhett…?" she whispered.

He looked down at her. How temptingly she lay he thought as her lemon verbena scent wafted over him.

"Yes, Scarlett?" His heart started beating faster. She didn't say anything but instead pushed herself up with her hands so that she was sitting upright against the pillows and as she met his gaze, she shuffled her body underneath the satin so that she was kneeling on the bed, her modesty still just about protected, except for one breast that she had unwittingly uncovered.

"I…I…" she stammered but she didn't manage to enunciate anything else because suddenly he had clamped his lips down hungrily on hers. For a moment, she was startled but then she started kissing him back, hard, insistently, her tongue touching his.

He pushed her back onto the bed and fell on top of her, damning the fact he was fully clothed because he wanted her again. Now. Quickly. Before she changed her mind and before he listened to the warning signal in his head, reminding him that he was falling into a trap. She fumbled at the buttons on his trousers, seemingly unaware that her breasts were exposed. He flipped her over and then flipped her over again as he tried to shed his garments. How was this happening? Wasn't she meant to be laughing at him or was that going to come later?

"I love you Scarlett," he whispered, too softly for her to her. "I've always loved you," he mouthed silently when they were both on top of the sheets, naked, before he allowed his hands to roam the length of her body, towards her secret, hidden place which was already ready for him. He kissed her hard again and again and she wasn't fighting him as she had done earlier, but was responding in a way she had never done before. Dear God, he thought, why was she acting like this tonight? Was it her trying to assuage her Catholic guilt for her earlier adulterous behaviour?

Afterwards, he lay awake and even though her eyelids were closed, he wasn't entirely sure she was sleeping because her body hadn't jerked in the way it did, just before sleep claimed her. Or at least how he had remembered it had. It had been so long since they had shared a bed that perhaps he was misremembering. Once again, he tried to think what he should do. An hour ago, it had been different. He had been so worried that he had forced her that he had wanted to leave. He had felt he had no option to leave. But now, now…could it be possible she had wanted him, as much as he had wanted her? He shook the thought from his mind. No. She was still in love with Ashley. The events of yesterday had proven that.

So, for the second time in the night, he slowly moved his body away from hers, hoping that she wasn't feigning sleep. He reached down by the bed for his discarded shirt. He would slip that on and then he would leave, run to his room. He could get dressed properly there and then go to Belle's. But as he tried to slide across the bed, away from her, he felt an arm fall proprietarily across his chest, trapping him. "Rhett…please…" Even though she spoke quietly, her voice wasn't scratchy from sleep. She was properly awake. He looked back at her and met wide, innocent, pleading eyes. "Please…" She cleared her throat. "I mean…you don't have to go back to your…erm…room." What was she saying? "Not if…you don't want to."

"I'm _going_ to go back to my room, Scarlett," he said and he was surprised how cool he sounded. There was no way she was going to make a fool of him. He removed her arm, slipped out of bed and put his shirt on and, as she was awake, he began to put the rest of his clothes on. Then suddenly, she rolled over to his side of the bed (which had actually been hers, when they had shared this room) and as he turned round, she was standing next to him, wrapped in the sheet. "Go back to sleep, Scarlett."

"No," she said. "Rhett…why…why…are you doing this?" and he thought there was a flicker of urgency in her question.

"Doing what?" he muttered, his heart pounding, willing her to say something, though he wasn't entirely sure what.

"Leaving…"

"This isn't my room any more. Remember?" And he couldn't help the edge of bitterness that crept into his voice.

"No…but…I…mean…well…" He looked at her, trying to figure out what she was about to say. He could almost see her nakedness through the sheet and it stirred something in him. Again. Surely he had had his fill of her tonight?

"I guess I should apologise for my behaviour. You see, I was quite drunk and I was…erm…quite swept off by your charms." Which was half the truth. He would never tell her how much she had hurt him yesterday, even though he knew she hadn't been technically unfaithful. Even though he, the wronged husband, knew that the salacious gossip that was spreading like wildfire was actually, technically incorrect.

"But…I…" she faltered again and he looked into those eyes, that he had swum in many times, several times almost drowning before he remembered what a heartless bitch she was. He wasn't going to lose control again.

"But _what_?" he said coldly.

"Nothing…" she said and she turned away and sat down on the bed, whilst he finished dressing. He picked up his shoes. He'd put them on when he was safely out of her haven.

"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning," he said and as he glanced at her, he thought he saw her eyes glisten with something. Tiredness probably.

Then, a lone, fat tear, trickled down her cheek. She brought her hand up to wipe it away before she flung herself back onto the bed, grabbing a pillow.

"You're a cad," she muttered. "The worst kind of cad. You just…used….me…" He had taken a couple of steps towards the door but even though her words were muffled he heard them.

There was a semblance of truth in what she accused him of. He _had_ used her but didn't he have a right to use her in that way? Then he felt the familiar anger rise inside of him. Angry that she could be so stupid and not see how right _they_ were together. Angry that she was willing to risk a divorce just so that she could hold on to some ridiculous, romantic notion of her and Ashley. As he thought of that man, his choler increased. How could they have been so stupid to get caught in such a compromising position and risk both their reputations, and the futures of their children? Yes, there had been rumours for years but no one had actually had any evidence. Until yesterday.

"And you've used me," he retorted. "It's about time we evened the score." He stood looking at her from a few feet away. He couldn't see her face because it was buried in the pillow. Her body spasmed a couple of times. Was she crying? Oh God, he hadn't meant to make her cry! How he wanted to go over and scoop her small body up in his arms and caress her and hold her and tell her what he really felt. And then he remembered how manipulative she was. No doubt this was all part of her game. If she _had_ heard his declarations of love, he wasn't about to repeat them again. They would be buried forever, with all the other feelings he had felt for her over the years.

He walked tentatively over to the door, not daring to look over his shoulder. Suddenly he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned round and she was standing right beside him, still wrapped in the sheet. And even though her hair was dishevelled and her rouge had streaked and her eyes were teary and slightly red, she looked like a goddess. His goddess.

"Yes?" he said, raising his eyebrows in the way that he knew always irked her.

"If…if…you leave this room…" Was she about to give him an ultimatum? It didn't look like she was playing a game. She looked earnest, distressed. Was she about to plead with him to stay? But he needed to hear something from her. He wasn't about to guess what words _might_ come out of her mouth.

"What?" he said, slightly breathless, slightly choked. She didn't say anything. "What?" he asked, trying to sound gentle.

"You…you can't leave," she whispered.

"Why…why…not?"

"Because…" What was she going to say? He felt sick, nauseous.

"Because, what?" he coaxed.

"Because you said you love me."

_Let me know what you think. And no, the owl reference was not a reference to Ondine's owl._


	3. Chapter 3

_Not entirely happy with this so if you have any suggestions for improving it, please let me know. Don't quite think it flows._

Chapter 3

He looked at her. She was so close to him, that he could feel her breath on his skin. He hadn't been sure exactly what she would say – he had known what he had _hoped _she might say - but it hadn't been that.

Had he really said those three words that loudly for her to hear? And now what was he supposed to do? What was she really thinking behind those mesmerising green orbs? Was she about to claim her triumph?

"Rhett?" she said. The softness of her voice surprised him. He increased the intensity of his gaze to see if he could detect any mirth or derision. But there was neither. She seemed so…so…vulnerable, like some sort of delicate bird rather than the lioness that she usually was – the lioness who didn't care who she hurt so long as she got her way and had enough food on the table to feed her cubs.

"Rhett? _Do_ you love me?" Her voice remained soft but there was a slight quiver to it.

His stomach turned and he was reminded of that night on Pittypat Hamilton's porch when she had first asked him outright if he loved her. He had denied it of course – as he was to continue doing for the next eight years or so – and had quickly turned the conversation to a subject matter that would make her uncomfortable so that there was no possibility she would correctly read him. He could still recall both her facial and vocal reaction to his suggestion that she become his mistress. "_What would I get out of that except a passel of brats_?" she had asked indignantly – a comment which, to this day, made him laugh out loud. And which highlighted her practicality. Naturally, he had only been testing her – testing her to see whether she felt anything other than friendship towards him. He had never had any real designs on making her his mistress then or afterwards. However much he might have been tempted.

"Rhett?" she persisted. "Do you?" He remained mute, unable to speak. "Please Rhett. Please say _something_."

He looked at her again and he saw her jaw begin to harden in that Irish way of hers that she had inherited from her father. Which always happened when she wanted something.

And so he was faced with the biggest dilemma of his life. Or at least the biggest dilemma since the night Atlanta had burned down, when he had had to balance risking her safety by abandoning her with his more pressing desire to enlist – in order to give himself the opportunity to prove to her family that he could be a worthy husband for her.

"Scarlett…" he began. She stared at him, challenging him to continue but he didn't know what to say. Should he attempt to deny it? _Could_ he attempt to deny it believably? This was what she had wanted to extract from him for years and years, the statement she had spent so much effort in goading him into confessing. And up until last night, he had managed to evade her snares. Well, that wasn't technically true. He had told her he loved her at Rough and Ready but she hadn't been paying attention. And there had been other times when he had almost slipped – good God, he had almost confessed the truth in the jail! – but, other than the night they had fled Atlanta together, he had always been so careful. Even when she had hurt him so much that he had had to disappear for days, weeks, sometimes months. And now, the whole façade had crashed down around him. And all because of that stupid, cowardly Wilkes and his own inability to remain immune to her charms and keep his desire in check.

"Rhett. Please answer me," she said shakily. "It's true, isn't it? You love me?" He glanced down at her right hand that slowly positioned itself on his arm, and then at her other hand which remained clutching the sheet. All he had to say was one little word but that one little word would change their lives forever. It would change everything and once he admitted it, he was completely at her mercy. Unless he left her – which he knew he would never do. It was like being at the roulette table. Red, black. Red, black. Yes, no, yes no…

"Yes," he said finally, in a voice he barely recognised as his own, quiet, uncertain. He shook her hand off him and walked away from the door to sit on one of the large chairs that faced out on to the balcony. In all the years he had courted her, lived with her, slept with her, he had never imagined his profession of love would be made like this. He hadn't expected it to be pried out of him as she just had, as though he was some naughty child, confessing to some mischief. He had sworn long ago that he would never tell her unless she told him first. And now he had tripped up and she had won. God, he needed a drink. A proper drink - not some damned water. She stood a few feet away, ethereal in white, her ebony mane cascading down past her shoulders, down her back. She was his Helen of Troy. Her face – her whole body – might have launched a thousand thoughts of love but such thoughts had been burnt just as quickly.

For a while, she stood stock still and when she finally moved, she padded over, still wrapped in the ridiculous sheet that trailed behind her, like the train of a wedding dress. She gathered the sheet higher up on her chest, so that there was no risk of it falling down and exposing her breasts, and sat down in the chair opposite him.

"So you love me?" He couldn't tell if her dazed expression was of disbelief or wonder.

He dragged his right hand through his hair but he didn't dare look at her. "Why don't you go and put some clothes on?" he mumbled, his face cast downwards. "Or at least a wrapper. Your, er…state of undress is most distracting." But he didn't hear her move and when he finally deigned to look at her again, she was still sitting there, still enveloped in the satin, still continuing to wear her puzzled expression.

"You…you…love me?" she asked. How many more times did she want him to repeat it? Was this her new way of torturing him? He couldn't think clearly. Couldn't think how to limit the damage. He really _did_ need a drink.

"Do you have any brandy in this room?" Brandy wasn't his drink of choice but it was better than nothing. He needed to hold something warm and comforting in his hands – and that would do. For now. He would go to Belle's later.

"Brandy?" she repeated. "Yes…yes…somewhere. I think I do." She got up from the chair and went over to her bed and knelt down before she stretched her arms underneath the bed and pulled out a large hatbox which contained a half full bottle of brandy. She took the bottle out and then attempted to stand up again but as she was getting off her knees, she fell back over, tripping over the sheet. The sheet unwrapped, revealing much more than she had intended to. "Damn," he heard her mutter under her breath, as she tried to gather the cloth again and maintain her propriety.

When she had readjusted the satin, she returned to where he was sitting, grabbing two glasses as she passed her dresser.

"Here you are," she said as she offered him the liquor and glassware.

"Thank you." He unscrewed the lid to the bottle and poured healthy measures into both glasses before he handed her one.

They sat in silence, staring at each other. He scrutinised her face and sometimes he thought he saw a faint smile start to form before he doubted himself and put it down to his imagination.

He drained his glass and then poured himself another measure. He felt he was suffocating and after he finished the second glass, he took it as his cue to leave. He _had _to – before she stole all his energy and his ability to think clearly.

"Well, this is all rather pleasant, Mrs Butler," he said, breaking the pregnant pause that had engulfed the room. "But I need some sleep. In my own bed." He placed the empty glass on a side table and stood up but as he did, she too stood up and once again, he felt an insistent hand on his arm.

"Why…why…didn't you tell me before? I mean, that you love me."

"Scarlett. I'm tired. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

"No. We have to talk about it tonight. Why didn't you tell me before, Rhett?" she repeated.

"Who knows?" he sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "Perhaps because I enjoy torturing you as much as you enjoy torturing me?"

"Enjoy _torturing_ you? Rhett…I…" but her voice trailed off as she cast her eyes down to the plush carpeting. She started twisting her wedding rings round and round her third finger and then she rubbed her temples with her hands.

"So now you know," he said coolly. "Well, I won't take up any more of your time. The children will be awake in a couple of hours and I told them I would take them to the river. Good night, Scarlett." He bowed, mocking her and started walking away. But he only took five steps before he heard her speak again.

"Rhett…please don't go. I…I…don't want you to go." He stopped walking and turned round to study her face. There wasn't any amusement, or satisfaction on it – characteristics he had expected to see. Instead, there was something pure. Innocence? Bewilderment? She seemed lost and it reminded him of how childlike she could still appear – even though she was probably in her late twenties. She didn't want him to go because…why didn't she want him to go?

"You don't want me to go?" he repeated quietly. His stomach twisted and the earlier bilious feeling returned.

She shook her head slowly. "No. I don't want you to go."

"Why not?" he asked his voice croaking, and he silently cursed himself. What was happening to him? His voice never gave way like it just had! "Haven't we both had enough…erm…excitement for one night? Unless you want to repeat our…er…earlier exploits?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I don't want you to go because…because…" She walked over to him. "Rhett? What happened tonight? Last night…what happened?"

"What happened? Well, darling, I hadn't realised that after all these years of being married to me – and being married twice before – that I would have to explain what _happened_…"

"I don't mean _that_," she snapped. "God, you can never be serious! You always have to make a joke. Of everything. Was tonight too some sort of joke?"

Immediately chastised, he shook his head. "No. It wasn't a joke. That's not _normally_ how I behave when I want to play a joke."

"So what happened? I mean, why did you…why did I…why do I…" And then she started crying. Initially, he couldn't see that that was what was happening. She didn't make any noise, she just allowed streams of tears to channel down her cheeks. She turned away and his heart broke. How had they got to this? How had their marriage deteriorated from, if not wedded bliss, some form of contentment to pain, mistrust and anger, sadness? And if he was truthful, hate too. Because he definitely hated her sometimes, even if such emotion was juxtaposed with love for her.

"Scarlett?" he asked softly. She shuffled away from him towards the bed, her body hiccoughing with quiet sobbing. "Honey?" She collapsed on the bed and took the big coverlet and, despite the humid air, wrapped it tightly round her. Why was she behaving like this? Shouldn't she be _happy _that she finally had him where she had wanted him all these years?

"I don't know why you didn't tell me before…" she stuttered. "I just…why didn't you…tell…me before…that you loved me? I feel like you've cheated on me. Or at least cheated me." So this was what all the tears were about! She felt…_cheated_…somehow. Did he really have to spell it out to her? Wasn't she aware of her own brutality and cruelty with people that loved her? Wasn't she aware how she used people's love? He only had to look at how she had manipulated Melanie over the years solely in her quest to keep Ashley close to her side!

"Scarlett. This is a very irrelevant conversation. I'm really rather tired and…"

"Irrelevant?" she spluttered, through more tears. "Irrelevant? You tell me now that you…when did you start loving me?"

Oh dear God, this conversation was going from bad to worse. He had to terminate it. Quickly.

"We can talk in the morning," he said, trying once again to postpone the conversation.

"No!" she shouted and she sat up in the bed. "We can't talk about it in the morning! I've told you I want to talk about it now. I just…you've lied to me Rhett. And I want to know how long you've been lying to me for."

Her inability to let the topic rest was beginning to irk him. That and the fact he had had about two hours sleep and his head hurt. And the fact that, if he wasn't careful, he might want to start kissing her again.

"Lying to you?"

"Yes. _Lying _to me. When did you start lying to me?"

He let out a deep sigh. It was becoming manifestly obvious that she wasn't going to give up. Perhaps it was better to be honest and then deal with the consequences later. "About ten years ago," he finally replied.

"Ten years?" she repeated, almost shouting. Her brilliant eyes widened, incredulous. "That means…"

"I think I fell in love with you at the barbeque, Scarlett," he said. "The Twelve Oaks barbeque."

"Oh," she murmured. He could see her process his response. After a while, she said, "So, you loved me when you married me?"

"Well that was four years ago. So yes," he said with a sarcastic lilt.

"And you loved me…when…I mean, just before I married Frank…"

"Well, that was six years ago. So yes again," he goaded. Her nostrils flared in anger and her eyes narrowed in irritation. He expected an explosion of some sorts but instead she said and did nothing. Only her face betrayed some of her feelings. "Are we through with the inquisition?" he said after another hush descended the room. "It's just that it's getting close to five o'clock and…"

"So, when I came to visit you in jail and…well…you know…" It had always amused him how, even so long after the event, she still found it so humiliating to be reminded of her rather brave proposal. For she had been brave, even if she had been brazen too.

"Yes darling. I was in love with you when you came up with that _charming _suggestion." He saw her blush, a beautiful scarlet. She was such a contradiction! She who could win any flirtation competition was actually rather shy, as he had discovered when he had married her. She had been so nervous on their wedding night and he had had to spend over two hours kissing her, and whispering sweet nothings to her, before he finally got what he had really wanted from her. Not that he had minded. He would have kissed her for days if he had had to and besides he found her virginal ways rather endearing.

"So you made me go through that…humiliation…when you loved me?" She shook her head in disbelief. "You have a funny way of showing love, Rhett."

Her eyes became watery again and he found his heart being pulled. Tentatively, he walked over to her and sat on the edge of the bed. "Scarlett," he said softly, "As I'm all in for candour tonight…" He cleared his throat. "You know, darling, I would never have taken you as my mistress, even though you expressed yourself as willing. If I had, you would have hated me and besides I wanted much more than just your charming, exquisite body. If I could have married you, I would have. There and then. I had made up my mind when I…erm…abandoned you at Rough and Ready, that I wanted to marry you. I was just a bit slow at getting round to it. Do you know the first thing I did as soon as I was released from that jail? I raced round to your Aunt Pitty's to propose to you. And of course to give you the money. But you had already become Mrs Kennedy."

"Really? You wanted to marry me then?" she whispered.

"Yes," he replied. He reached across the bed and swept some stray strands of her hair away from her blanched face. She moved towards him and instinctively, he took her face in his hands, cupping it gently before he kissed her on her forehead. God, he loved her! How had she not realised it before? Wasn't it blindingly obvious? Had itreally taken him _telling _her for her to figure out the truth?

"But…oh my God! If I'd known, I wouldn't have married Frank."

"Well, I did think you were rather hasty with your second marriage but I guess you did what you had to do to survive. You shouldn't beat yourself up over it. And you've got your hands on my money now, so it all worked out in the end."

"Your money? But Rhett…that wasn't the only reason I married you."

"Sorry, I forgot. You are "fond" of me too. Or at least you were when we got married. I'm not sure that you have exhibited much signs of fondness over the last couple of years."

"Of course I'm still…fond of you. I guess I just…" She didn't finish the sentence and instead snuggled down further under the coverlet. He could see she was thinking and for a moment he wondered if she was considering her own feelings towards him. Might she be contemplating that perhaps she felt more for him than mere fondness? Or was that his wishful thinking again, lulling him into a false sense of peacefulness?

"What are you thinking?" he asked gently.

"I'm thinking how things…might have been different between us…if you had told me before that you loved me."

"Perhaps. But they might not have been either. I think we've both developed quite a warped sense of what marriage is about."

"And what do you think it should be about?"

"I know what I _don't_ think it should be about. I don't think it should be a constant battle. I don't think there should be as much cruelty as we seem to exhibit." He paused. "I also don't think it is a good idea to stop sleeping together." He watched her face for a reaction. He expected his last comment to inflame her ire but instead he thought he saw a flash of pain – regret – wash over her.

They were both silent for a while, save for their breathing. "Rhett, you know…about yesterday…I…"

"Scarlett, I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"But I want to explain. I wanted to explain yesterday but you didn't really give me the chance."

"Explain what?"

He heard her swallow hard. "About Ashley and me. At the mill. I didn't…I mean…nothing happened between us…"

"I know…"

"You know? How do you know?"

"I told you yesterday. I know you've been technically faithful to me because he's too…erm…honourable …to take what he really wants from you."

"What he really wants?" She looked perplexed before she continued. "I've never kissed him, Rhett. Not since I married you I mean. And yesterday, we were just reminiscing about the old days, before the war, and it made me sad. All he did was comfort me and it was just by chance that India and Archie saw us. It was so…so…innocent."

"Innocent? How can it be truly innocent Scarlett when you feel as you do about him?"

"But it was Rhett! He was just comforting me as a…friend….I didn't feel anything towards him other than…friendship." She looked at him as though she was willing him to believe her. Did he? Could he really trust her that she was only viewing him as a friend? "You do believe me, don't you?"

He sighed. "I don't know Scarlett. And I'm not sure it changes anything. He's still got your heart, hasn't he? Even if you did only feel _friendship _towards him yesterday. He's still got your heart."

She shrugged awkwardly. "I…I…I don't know."

He stared at her. What was she saying? That she wasn't sure if she loved Ashley anymore? She hadn't _exactly _said that but she certainly seemed confused. And confusion was a start. Wasn't it?

"Rhett…will you sleep here tonight? With me?"

"Tonight?" he said, his voice shaking.

She looked at the clock by her bedside and smiled. "Well, what's left of it." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading with him to agree. "Only if you want to." Want to! This woman who he adored despite all that she had done to him was asking him back into her bed and she wasn't sure if he wanted to!

"Of course I want to." he said quietly. He swung his legs up onto the bed and lay on top of the sheets. Hesitantly, he reached out to her and began to stroke her head – as he had done when they had first married - and she closed her eyes. She shuffled closer to him still but was constrained by the sheet that was still protecting her modesty.

"Rhett," she whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"Can you close your eyes please? I'm just going to put my nightgown on." He started chuckling. Oh she was priceless. Hadn't he spent the last four hours ogling her naked form, tracing it with his eyes, his hands, his tongue…

"Of course darling. My eyes are closed." He felt her lean over him – as though she was corroborating his statement - and then, through the cracks in his eyelids, he saw her roll out of the sheet and reach under her pillow for a nightgown. She put it over her head and then dragged it over her breasts, her stomach and down past her legs. Then, she nestled back towards his own fully clothed body.

"Good night, Rhett."

"Good night, Scarlett."


	4. Chapter 4

Rhett stirred. The daylight that had been threatening to wake him from his slumber for the last couple of hours had finally become too bright for even him to ignore. He opened his eyes and looked across at his wife. Her body had migrated to his side so that, not just her right arm but her right leg, lay across his body, snaking its way round his left calf. Almost as though she was trying to trap him and didn't want him to leave.

He moved his body away from her warmth and turned to face her bedside cabinet. Somehow, they had shifted positions in the night so that what had been his side of the bed, had become hers. He looked at her clock and cursed silently when he saw the time. How had he slept in so late? It was nearly eight o'clock and Bonnie would almost certainly have been up for the last hour or so, maybe longer. What if she had been crying out for him? He knew he wouldn't have heard through these damned velvet walls! This had never happened to him before. However tempting it had always been to spend the whole night at Belle's, he had never once failed to return before sunrise, just in case his angel woke early. And now he had slipped up because of the damned allure of the child's mother!

Quickly, he leaned across to check on his sleeping wife. He was vaguely tempted to wake her but she looked so…peaceful…and besides he didn't quite have the time to deal with her explosive temper – because surely she would wake and remember the events of the last ten hours or so and be angry with him. And rightly so. Hadn't he violated her in all sorts of ways? Good God, what they had done last night he couldn't even remember doing with a woman he paid let alone with someone he loved!

Deftly, he removed her encroaching limbs and then he pushed the coverlet off his legs and got out of bed. He couldn't find his shoes, he couldn't remember where he had put them or kicked them off – but he could retrieve them later. Or not at all. His shoes were the least of his problems.

He heard the birds twitter outside the windows and the stable boys' footsteps underneath the balcony that wrapped itself right the way around the house. He sighed and dragged his hand across his face, hoping that that action might have the same effect as splashing cold water on him. He had slept badly and fitfully and his eyes stung with tiredness and his head ached. But he had no time to think of his ailments – he had to get out. He walked barefoot across the carpet towards the entrance to her room, thankful for once that she had insisted on the thick floor covering.

"Rhett…." came a muffled sound from the direction of the bed. Not again! he seethed but when he glanced over to her animate being, her eyes were shut and instead she had stretched out engulfing the place where his body had been a few moments before and he heard her emit a gentle sigh. She was still asleep, thank God, and he breathed again. They could talk later – if she wanted to, if he was forced to. But now, he wanted to get to his baby, his blue-eyed angel, his raison d'être.

He opened the door. Downstairs he could hear the servants as they hurried about their chores and the bossy, gruff voice of Mammy rising above the rest of the din as she ordered Prissy and Sabrina around. Good, he thought. At least they would not see him leave their mistress's clutches and he could avoid Mammy's reproachful gaze.

He closed her door softly behind him and then tiptoed down the corridor towards his own room. Bonnie was probably trying to clamber out of her cot by now and he wondered if Mammy had already been in to see her. And if she had, she would know….God, he didn't want to think about it! Apart from his mother and Miss Melly, Mammy's good opinion of him was all that he cared to keep and if she had known that he had slept with her mistress after all this time, she would no doubt give him a piece of her mind. And, quite frankly, he could do without that.

He stood outside his own room and sighed. Then, he put his hand to the cold, brass door handle and twisted it but as he did so, he heard a little voice speak his name. "Uncle Rhett."

Damn, he muttered under his breath. Trust the children to be up already! But it wasn't their fault, it was his fault. He shouldn't have fallen asleep with her, however…lovely…it might have been. If he had left when _she_ had fallen asleep he would not be sneaking around his own house.

He turned round to see big hazel eyes staring at him quizzically, from the shadows of the large grandfather clock that dominated the upstairs hallway. The little boy was wearing a blue, flannel night shirt and carrying an old toy elephant – something that Rhett had brought back for him from London years ago.

"Wade!" exclaimed Rhett and even though he tried to dismiss his rising panic, he felt his heart begin to race. What had the boy seen? How long had he been standing there? Surely he should be in the nursery with Ella? The servants were becoming lazier as each month went by! And Prissy, dear God, he would have dismissed her if she hadn't been the daughter of Dilcey and the stepdaughter of Pork.

Wade padded out from the silhouette of the clock, yawned and then looked his stepfather up and down. "Why are you not wearing any shoes?" he asked, his eyes wide and innocent.

Rhett inwardly groaned. Where was the shy child who wouldn't say boo to a goose when he needed him? Rhett cleared his throat. "I forgot to put them on Wade. Now, why don't you go back to the nursery as I am sure Mammy will be up with your breakfast any minute now."

"Mammy's bathing Ella. And Prissy said breakfast would be a little later today."

"Well…" but Rhett didn't know what to say and instead, he leaned forward and tousled his stepson's fair curls before planting a kiss on his forehead. Despite all of her failings as a mother, Scarlett's children were bewitchingly endearing. "I'll join you in the nursery shortly," he said and then he turned and once again clenched the door handle. He twisted it and the door opened.

"Uncle Rhett?" the boy said shyly again. Rhett gritted his teeth and then peered quickly into the room. He saw that Bonnie was sitting up in her cot, playing with her favourite doll. She hadn't seen him, so he pulled the door to again and faced his young accuser. He smiled at him, encouraging him to talk. After a few moments, Wade spoke again. "Uncle Rhett…why were you coming out of Mother's bedroom?" Rhett's stomach flipped – which was an odd sensation. He so rarely lost control of the situation, let alone his emotions. And now he felt almost instantaneous guilt. And shame. It was a very pertinent question. Why _was_ he coming out of his wife's bedroom? Because he had acted like some uncaged animal last night who had not been able to keep his hands off her? But then he smiled as the irony washed over him. Were all of the Butler children going to grow up with some twisted idea that parents didn't sleep in the same room? What a farce his marriage – his whole life – had become!

"I thought I had left my shoes in her bedroom but it turns out I hadn't." That was a plausible excuse and not one that an eight year old child would likely challenge. And it wasn't exactly a lie either. "Now, young sir, I need to bathe and then get dressed otherwise we'll never make it to the picnic. You do still want to go don't you?"

Wade nodded vigorously. "Yes. Yes. Yes please," and Rhett smiled at the enthusiasm he displayed for such a simple pursuit.

"Well, I suggest you go back into the nursery and wait for your breakfast. Otherwise, you'll risk the wrath of not just Mammy but your mother too. I suspect she'll be awake shortly." Wade grinned at his stepfather and made to leave but then he stopped. A puzzled expression flooded across his sun-kissed face.

"Alright, sir. But…" he paused, his young eyes conveying uncertainty and confusion. "Uncle Rhett, you're already dressed." Rhett stifled a laugh but couldn't prevent a smile from starting to form on his face. God, this child was too smart for his own good! Thank God his mother had not the same level of astuteness as her son did, otherwise she would have been privy to his secret long ago.

"You're quite right, Wade. But I got dressed forgetting about today's picnic so I am going to change. Hurry along now and make sure you and Ella are ready at nine o'clock," Rhett replied. "Otherwise, it'll be too hot to ride to the river."

Wade beamed at him, his smile going to his eyes, which always made Rhett melt. He was a good boy, despite having Scarlett for a mother. "Yes sir," he said and then he scuttled off towards the nursery, dragging his elephant behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~R & S~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The children were ready at nine o'clock and their father was not too much later. He had scrubbed his body clean of his wife's cloying scent and their combined stickiness as well as the stale smell of liquor which had begun to offend his young daughter. As he had immersed himself in the tepid water, he had briefly wondered if he could also rid his mind of the memories of last night. Yes, he had enjoyed her and humbled her but he had also said the three words that he had never, ever wanted to say to her – or at least not until he had known that she no longer cared for her insipid and feckless lover.

Fortune had obviously been smiling down on him when he had promised the children he would take them to the river three days ago because his wife could not accuse him of running away from her. It provided the perfect excuse for him to escape his self-made prison as well as attempt to leave the memories of his more hedonistic pursuits behind. He rode to the river with Bonnie strapped in front of him and with Pork guiding the carriage that transported Wade, Ella and Prissy and by the time they reached the water, Rhett's headache had disappeared. He wanted to spend as long as possible away from the house – in the vain hope that, by the time they arrived home, she might have gone to one of her vacuous whist evenings – and so they waded in the water, tried to catch fish and ate their food in the shade of the willow trees. And all along, whilst he tried to play the role of the attentive father, his mind was not on the children, scarcely even his beloved Bonnie, but on their mother. The parasite that had sunk her teeth into him on that fateful April day ten years ago and sucked out his ability to act rationally. And last night, had finally eaten away at his self-control.

When the children fell asleep on the rugs mid-way through the afternoon, he, too, lay back on the woollen carpet and allowed his own eyes to close, knowing that Pork would keep an eye on things. He needed to rest his weary mind as well as his body but his thoughts inevitably wandered back to the events of the previous night. God, how wonderful it had felt to feel her naked skin again, to smell her, to taste her response to his touch. But then he remembered the confession she had extricated from him. He hadn't even held back with the truth and lied as to when he first fell in love with her! Good God, what a fool he was! And where did that leave them now? Could he honestly continue to live with her, knowing that she knew, having to put up with her triumphant glee? Oh, this was all a huge mess and one of his making. But as he rued his mistake once again, he couldn't get out of his mind how her body had arched pliantly to his, how she had returned his kisses with a passion that he could not remember from before, how she had _asked _him to stay and how ultimately she had seemed…confused? Yes, she had definitely seemed confused, but was it because he had finally spilled the details of his long held secret or was it confusion over something else?

His reverie was broken by the sudden wailing of Bonnie. He opened his eyes and saw that she had left the nest of rugs, walked a few steps on the uneven ground and had fallen down. Quickly, he stood up, cursing Prissy and ran to his child, scooping her up in his arms and lathering her with kisses and whispering tender words into her ears before her crying was converted into giggling. Then, he looked at his pocket watch. It was almost four o'clock and it would take them at least two hours to pack up and travel back to the house.

"Come on children," he said as Wade and Ella began to stir. "We're going home."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~R & S~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived back shortly after six o'clock and Scarlett came out of her bedroom after hearing the commotion downstairs. She stood on the top landing, waiting for her ragamuffins to make their journey upstairs and into the nursery.

"What have you been doing all day?" she said, as she dutifully kissed them before she reached out to her husband to take her youngest child. Their hands briefly touched as their daughter was exchanged between them and Scarlett's eyes shot up to his face, a look of surprise or perhaps a look of disgust. He looked intently at her but then she averted her eyes from his and took a couple of steps away from him, as though she was deliberately putting some distance between them. And then he left the gathering throng – Mammy, his wife, Dilcey and Prissy - to fuss over the children whilst he retired to his own bedroom. Tonight, he would go to Belle's and stay there all night if he felt like it.

When he had dressed for the evening and Bonnie was safely sleeping in his room, he tentatively opened the door. He didn't want to run into anyone, lest they delay his departure, even though the household was used to his nocturnal comings and goings. He stepped out and slowly clicked the door shut. And then, as if she had had her ear to the door, her door opened. Damn, damn, damn.

He stood in the hallway, watching as this night time vision of beauty stepped into the hallway. She was wearing a burgundy gown overlaid with little clusters of onyx and it was cut very low over her bosom. It wasn't apparel he could recall seeing her in before – but then she had so many gowns that she could probably wear a different one every day of the year and she would still probably have ones in her closet she hadn't worn. She moved closer to him, and he took a couple of steps towards her. He thought he saw her cheeks flush - he couldn't be sure whether that was the rouge she was wearing or a manifestation of her discomfort at seeing him but as he searched her face again, he determined that she was definitely wearing rouge, albeit that she had painted herself more subtly than how she would normally wear it. Or how he had insisted she wear it last night, when he had wanted her to do justice to her reputation as the town's scarlet woman.

She had done something with her hair too – it was less severe than some of the styles she had worn over the last few weeks and she had allowed some tendrils to escape from the pins. God, she looked beautiful, even if her attire wouldn't have looked entirely out of place in a brothel. How could she dress so garishly – whorishly even - and yet retain such an innocence, a beguiling naiveté? It was a conundrum he hadn't yet figured the answer to.

"Hello Rhett," she said as she stood in the hallway, her shoulders upright, her chin slightly upturned as though she was preparing for some battle. He looked at her again, and as his eyes raked her body he noticed that she was circling her engagement ring with her right hand – a ring which he had bought for her, not out of love but of hate. He smiled to himself as he remembered traipsing all over Europe looking for the perfect engagement ring – a ring that would be too ostentatious for even her to enjoy wearing it. Yes he had been malicious but what had she expected when, even in the throes of proposing to her, she had reminded him that she did not love him. Couldn't she have pretended just once in their goddamn lives that she felt more for him than _fondness_?

She smiled at him but he wasn't falling for that trick and he made sure his bland mask was safely fixed. After all that he gave away last night, he wasn't about to make the same mistake two evenings in a row. He followed the curves of her breasts, the slight swell of her hips and down to where her skirt kissed the floor, before he allowed his eyes to wander to her face again. And then he saw she was biting her lip. Was she nervous? Was she nervous about him? And then she put her hand to her mouth and started biting her thumb nail.

"Good evening, Mrs Butler. You're dressed rather…erm…extravagantly…are you going out for this evening?"

He thought he heard her swallow but it could have been his own swallow. "No…I…" her voice trailed off as he felt her eyes survey him. "Are _you_ going out for the evening?"

"How perceptive, Mrs Butler. Yes. I was just about to leave."

"Oh…" and she cast her eyes down. How could she have expected him to have stayed in for the evening, after all that had transpired between them in the early hours of the morn? Was she really anticipating that he would want to stay in this house with her tonight? But then he looked at her dress again and an element of doubt crept up on him. Was her elaborate clothing for his benefit? She normally only made such an effort if she was going to a ball or a whist evening or to the mills. Apart from her wedding day, he was pretty certain she had never dressed with him in mind once. Was this a sign that something had shifted between them after the drama and twisted passion that had unfolded last night?

"Well, I guess I'll ask Dilcey to bring supper for me up in my room. Good evening," she said softly.

She turned slowly but as she did, he thought he saw her eyes glisten and the steel that had surrounded his heart for the last two years – no, the last ten years – melted. He reached out to touch her, to bring her round to face him again, half expecting her to shrug off his touch. But she didn't. "Scarlett," he began and her small body juddered – as though she was trying to swallow a sob. "Scarlett," he cooed quietly. "Please, look at me." She turned around and he saw that he hadn't been wrong. Even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes had pooled with tears. Suddenly, he felt guilty that even after last night, when he had used her body unremittingly without caring if he broke her, he still wanted to hurt her. "I don't _have_ to go out," he found himself saying. Which was true. He didn't. He never really _had _to go out. He only ever felt compelled to leave the house in the evening in order to escape the sound of her bedroom door shutting him out.

"I had just thought that we could…eat…together…this evening. That's all," she said quietly. "But if you've made other plans, it doesn't matter."

He let out a wry chuckle and arched his eyebrows. "Is that all? You only had to ask, Scarlett. I can…I'll go out later. I can certainly…eat…with you tonight if you want." And anything else that you might want me to do, he added silently. Was it really only twelve hours ago that he had woken up in the room behind that door that she was standing in front of? Was it really only last night that he had taken his pleasure from her, again and again and again and then been manipulated into making the ultimate confession? He did want to see Belle but that could wait. He could see her later and he could unload his burden. Of guilt, of embarrassment, of fresh humiliation.

"Well, if you are sure…" she said, as though she herself wanted reassurance.

"You are my wife," he replied without thinking. She shot him a glance and it was as though she was trying to detect something. She opened her mouth – no doubt to utter some clever retort - but then closed it without saying anything. "Here," he said, offering her his arm. "Let me escort you downstairs for supper."

She took his proffered arm and slowly they walked down the crimson staircase. "I asked Dilcey to make beef stew," said Scarlett as they reached the bottom. He smiled vacantly as he felt his stomach shift uncomfortably. His wife knew that that was his favourite dish and Dilcey had always cooked it to perfection. What was her ruse?

"Shall we go through to the parlour first or shall we…"

"No. Let's go to the dining room," she said stiffly. "It's already eight o'clock."

"As you wish, Madam," he said, gently mocking her decisiveness.

They entered the dining room and he pulled out a chair for his wife, and as he did so, the memories of the previous night came flooding back. This had been where it had all started. This had been where he had finally lost control and where he had wanted to smash his wife's scull between his hands. His dark goddess had been so brave. She had pretended of course that his ire did not frighten her, but he had seen her tremble, he had heard her catch her breath. And she would have been safe from him, if she had not tossed her head in that way that always drove him wild, just as she had left the room.

The meal was served and they ate in silence, save for his wife's inane questioning about the picnic and her feigned concern about the girls paddling in the river. "Rhett, Bonnie can hardly walk!" she admonished when he said that they had waded through some of the rocks in the search for fish.

"I carried her, Scarlett, and Wade held Ella's hand. Do you think I would risk the life of my daughter? Of any of our children?" he had shot back.

"No of course not," she responded quietly. "I didn't mean to suggest that…" and then she paused. "_Our_ children?" she questioned and she frowned, marring her beautiful alabaster forehead.

"They're as good as, Scarlett. I'm the only father they've really known," he replied and he gazed intently at his wife. What was she really thinking behind those penetrating emeralds of hers? Why had she insisted on this tortured meal when she had barely touched her plate of food and had barely spoken? Was she trying to punish him after his behaviour last night? Forcing him to engage in awkward civility before she told him what she really thought about last night?

Dilcey came in to clear the plates and to bring some coffee. He moved the decanter of whisky to the table, poured a glass and then lit a cigar whilst his wife of over three years sat fidgeting with her rings. She looked lost, uncomfortable even, and when coffee had been poured and they were alone once again, she took the bottle of wine that lay half drunk and emptied the remaining red liquid into her glass. Then, she drained the glass, quickly, before she cast her eyes towards the heavy door. The door which he had pushed her up against last night. The door which, but for the prying eyes of the servants, he might have been tempted to have taken her against. God, she was the most frustrating, intoxicating woman he had ever come across and even after all these years, he wasn't quite sure how to handle her.

She moved her chair back and then threw her napkin in the centre of the table. "I suppose I should…"

"What did you do today?" he asked suddenly, knowing the answer. He had overhead the kitchen staff gossiping as he had gone to get some milk for Bonnie from the pantry, before he had read her a bedtime story.

"I…Oh, this and that," she stuttered, not daring to meet his stare. "I'm tired, Rhett, so…I think I'll go to bed now."

"What did you do today?" he repeated, determined to make it difficult for her. She had extracted his own secret from him last night. He wanted to know her secret or at least hear it from his lying, cheating wife's own lips.

She pushed her chest out and looked at him. "I went to see Melly," she said simply. "I felt that I had to somehow…explain…about yesterday. You know, how it was all a big misunderstanding."

"Oh yes. The big misunderstanding," he said, failing to hide the bitterness in his voice. "How you have loved her husband for years but that yesterday was all about…erm…friendship. I forgot." Even thinking about that man coveting his wife angered him and when he looked down at his right hand, he noticed it was already clenched. It was a pity that it was not clenched round that philander's neck.

"I thought…you…understood," she said quietly. "I thought you understood," she repeated. Then, she swigged from her empty wine glass and realising it was empty cleared her throat. "Thank you for supper Rhett. Good night." She moved her chair back and stood up and then walked out of the room, leaving the flames of her husband's anger mildly fanned. So, they were going to go on as if nothing had happened were they? he mused, annoyed at his own inability to say what he really wanted to. Had she forgotten what they had done in her bed, in their bed, last night?

He stubbed out his cigar and threw in his own napkin – like his own white flag. He was done with her! He didn't need to put up with her behaviour! It was far less complicated fraternising with whores than with his wife. They were far simpler creatures. He walked into the hall. She was a few paces in front of him, with her back to him, but she seemed weary. This wasn't the way his wife usually acted. Her gait reminded him of the wounded soldiers that he had seen in the last months of the War, defeated, knowing their cause was hopeless but carrying on regardless. He watched her as she dragged her feet up the stairs, her luxurious chiffon gown trailing behind her.

Suddenly, he was by her side. They were nearly at the top – he could almost see the wood gleaming from where the servants had freshly polished it earlier in the day. He grabbed her arm and swung her round. She looked startled. "Please Rhett. Don't touch me like that." He released his hold on her. She looked so pale, ethereal even, not unlike his own image of Titania, but without the crown and wand.

"Scarlett, why did you want to have dinner tonight? Why did you dress up so…exquisitely tonight…for me?"

"I didn't dress up for you, Rhett. I dressed up for me!" she scoffed. She continued walking, up to the top of the stairs, as he matched her step for step.

"You didn't answer my first question," he said softly and with two fingers he pulled her face round, and forced her to look at him.

She blushed and then she cast her eyes down. "I thought it would be a nice change. We don't often eat together these days." There was another silence before the clock on the landing broke it. Rhett counted the chimes. It was ten o'clock. Then she spoke again, so softly that it was almost a whisper. "Isn't that what husbands and wives are meant to do?"

"Husbands and wives are meant to do a lot of things, Scarlett. Aren't they?" She nodded and he moved a step closer to her. He was now hovering over her and then she bit her lip, in that sensuous manner of hers that always caused desire to course through his veins.

He could hear his own breathing, and could see her chest heaving. Then, abruptly, she broke their locked gaze as she glanced at her bedroom door. The door that he had stumbled through last night. The door he would have broken down last night if he had had to.

She looked back at him. "Rhett…I…" but she didn't continue and instead she leaned towards him and brushed her lips against his. Then, she pulled away, her eyes still focussed on him. Oh dear God, what was this woman doing to him.

"Scarlett…"

"I'm sorry, Rhett. I'm not quite sure what came over me."

"Scarlett," he said as he placed a hand on her once again. "Husbands and wives aren't meant to kiss like that. If that was that was." She didn't say anything but instead her cheeks got redder. Finally, she turned and he let her walk away, back to her room, back to her safe room, back to her sanctuary. She opened the door and put one foot in her bedroom. Was she just tempting him or was she as confused about last night as he was? Now that she knew he loved her, was this her new way of torturing him?

"How are husbands and wives meant to kiss then, Captain Butler?" she said. Her body was still turned away from him, so he couldn't see her face. Was she mocking him? But there was something in her poise that created an air of vulnerability and when she pushed on her door again, he saw her hand tremble.

"I could show you how I think they are _supposed_ to kiss, Mrs Butler. If you wish of course," he whispered. His heart had jumped back into his throat and he knew that if he looked down at his own hands, they would be trembling too.

She stood still and slowly he walked towards her. When he reached her, he gently wrapped his arms round her. He thought that she might try and eject him from his embrace but instead she seemed to nestle into his body. He held her tighter before he started placing languid kisses all the way up her neck. Then, he twisted her body round and moved his lips to her already parted mouth. He pressed down on it and then gently started kissing her, caressing his own tongue against hers. He felt her own arms tighten around him and her body relax. "This is how husbands and wives are meant to kiss, Scarlett," he murmured as he gently manoeuvred her into her bedroom and closed the door behind them.

_Somehow, this was easier to write than Chapter 30 of Six Months, so I thought I'd put this out there. I know a lot of people prefer this story to Six Months – it's certainly shorter. I am concerned that there is a bit of repetition – please point it out!_

_If some think that this doesn't quite pick up from the truce of sorts at the end of Chapter 3 – all I will say is that Chapters 1 to 3 are completely fuelled by alcohol. This is the aftermath – when both definitely are nursing hangovers…_

_Oh, and for those of you that thought Rhett in Chapter 3 was too "soft" – he loves this woman absolutely and if she could welcome him back into her bed again, then that would be "meeting him halfway" and, according to MM at the end, he would be kissing her feet. For that though, you should try Dixie Cross's wonderful "Bittersweet Scars"._


	5. Chapter 5

_Needed a break from Six Months – I am almost at the end of that story and I don't want to rush my writing of the ending. So I wrote this instead. _

_I won't abandon stories – even if it takes me a while to update. Thank you everyone for your reviews to this and for following it. Having written through Scarlett's eyes for so long, I hope I have got Rhett right here._

_Warning – maturish subject matter (not action, more conversation). And there is one expletive here that I thought needed to stay in. If you get offended by the f word, please don't read. And if anyone has a better way of Belle saying it, then let me know (I don't like to include it in my fan fic but I think it was right here). Let me know if you think this chapter pushes the rating to an M. I hope not but let me know._

_And apologies for not writing in Belle's dialect. I struggle enough with Mammy's and didn't want to attempt Belle's!_

Chapter 5

"Where have _you_ been honey?"

Belle, his mistress on and off for the last decade, smiled warmly at him as he walked into her suite of rooms. She offered him her lips but instead, he kissed her powdered cheek. "Have you been away or has someone else been keeping you warm at night?" she teased.

Rhett laughed awkwardly as he closed the door behind them and suddenly wondered if he had made a mistake in coming over to see her. He had intended to ask for advice, he had wanted her take on the transformation of his wife but as he looked around her boudoir which connected to her bedroom and a dressing room, and which she had had re-decorated a week after he had come crawling back to her bed two years ago, he suddenly wondered if it might hurt her if she knew what he had been doing since he had last seen her.

"Mind if I help myself to a drink, Belle?" he said as he took off his jacket and put it on a chair.

She smiled again, in that special, knowing way of hers that had always managed to bring him out of his darkest moods, and gestured towards the decanter. "You paid for it, Rhett. Be my guest."

He walked over to her side board, poured himself a large whisky and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, while he mulled over how best to start the conversation.

He needed to explain his change of circumstances although he was mindful it was all very new and his wife could change her mind. After all, he had only slept with her _twice_, hardly confirmation that a new precedent had been set. The first night it had happened, it had been him forcing himself on her. At least to start with. He remembered carrying her up the stairs, her arms flailing, trying to escape his clutches. But last night, _she_ had invited him into her bedroom. _She _had kissed him first. She had dressed up for the evening. For him. And when he had taken her to bed, he had known she was nervous but she had definitely wanted him. Her _body_ had told him she wanted him. It might not have been the best sex he had had, but it had other qualities. It had been blissful and afterwards, she had snuggled right up to him and when his hand had fallen off her hip, she had gently replaced it and edged closer to him. Her skin had been so soft, her hair had smelt so-

"Rhett?" His thoughts were broken by Belle's husky, Southern drawl. How long has she been talking to him for?

"Sorry darling."

"Where were you just then? On the moon? Were you listening to anything I said?" He turned round and looked at her as she walked towards him. She had on a low-cut, red wrapper, with cream piping and underneath it he could see the lace of a red negligee she had brought back from New Orleans, when she had visited there at Christmas.

He was her only client these days – an indulgence he hadn't asked for but which she had insisted on - and she dressed as she thought he would want her to dress not realising that she was failing miserably. Of course he had never told her. Just as he never told her that her attempts at re-decorating her suite to suit his taste had only been partially successful.

She put a hand on his arm and then reached up to touch his face. He flinched slightly, but not so slightly that she didn't see. Her eyes swivelled up to her lover quizzically, and then she dropped her hand, took a step back and walked to the side board to pour a glass of whisky for herself.

He sighed inaudibly as he watched her. She wasn't as readable as his wife but in matters of the heart, she had always worn everything on her sleeve.

"It's her, isn't it? What's the bitch done to you this time?" she said swigging back a mouthful of the burning liquid.

He winced at her words. She had never liked his wife, even less since he had married her. When he had first told Atlanta's most famous whore that he had proposed and that Scarlett had accepted, she had insisted that they drink to his new life of misery. "I bet she's lousy in bed," she had said. And she hadn't been too off in her pronouncement. "Too scrawny, not enough bosom. I have prettier girls here, Rhett, and they won't cost half as much as she will. Even if you slept with two every night." The thought had amused him but it was Scarlett he had wanted. Had only ever wanted.

"Belle…" he began.

"Sorry darling," she said contrite, suddenly aware that she had to be careful how and in what circumstances she spewed her venom. "I sometimes forget she's your wife."

He forced a smile. "Actually, I came to ask your advice Belle." She flicked her eyes up towards him and stared at him for a while without saying anything. Then she moved back to the chaise longue, her slippers getting tangled in her red train. She steadied herself on the mantelpiece and sat down.

"So what's happened? You finally caught her in bed with Mr Wilkes?"

Rhett shook his head. "Strangely no. Something more…" he paused, struggling how to articulate what had happened in the last thirty six hours. "Something more…unbelievable than that."

Belle smirked, lifted the cut glass up to her lips and drained the remaining amber liquid. Without asking, he refilled her glass and topped up his own. Then he sat down opposite her in the chair he had brought back for her from Paris. Which had become her most prized possession.

"You see…" He stopped abruptly as he wondered if he was doing all this right.

"Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"

He sighed and then dragged a hand through his hair. "I…she…we spent the night together."

"What? You finally fucked her again? How did you do it? With handcuffs?"

He allowed a faint smile to form on his lips. Belle had always been direct. "No but…well…" and then he stopped, as the memory of forcing himself on her the night of Ashley's party washed over him.

"Well, what?" He felt Belle's brown eyes boring into him. He could tell she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

He sighed. "It wasn't quite like that. There might have been some…coercion on my part…the first time but-"

"You slept with her more than _once_?" Her voice had now lost all its fake elegance.

"Several times. Belle, she _kissed_ me. I mean, she grabbed my neck and pulled me towards her and _kissed_ me. She definitely wanted me."

Belle's mouth dropped open and formed a wide O.

"Yes I know," he said, reading her unspoken exclamations, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. She was his confidant, the one person whom he could trust with anything, the one person he had never lied to about anything. But she was also his lover and he knew that she loved him, however much she tried to pretend that what they had was a business relationship with a bit of friendship on the side.

"How did you achieve that?" she finally stammered.

"I'd like to think it had something to do with my good looks and charm, darling," he said and forced a grin.

Belle chortled and leaned back on the chaise longue, her wrapper riding high, revealing dainty ankles and calves. As buxom as she was, she had always had good legs.

"Well I never," she finally said, an element of defeat in her voice. She tapped her fingers on the wood of the furniture absentmindedly. He could almost see the cogs turning in her head. Then she spoke. "Does she want another child or something?"

Rhett emitted a short burst of laughter. Oh the irony! As if his wife would sleep with him again, after all these years, because she wanted a child. No, his wife would certainly _not_ want another child and he had always resolved that if he had found himself back in his wife's bed then he would take precautions. And then he suddenly realised that he had forgotten about taking precautions last night. And the night before.

"Yes. That was a rather silly comment of mine. I had forgotten how cats are more maternal than your wife," Belle continued when he didn't speak. "But I suppose it _might_ explain the change in her."

"No darling. I can assure you Scarlett does _not _want another child. Not my child. She barely spends more than five minutes with the children she's got."

He looked at the woman who was sitting across from him, who suddenly seemed so vulnerable, for all her coarse talk, her swagger, her war paint. A melancholy had settled over her that hadn't been present ten minutes ago. He stood up and walked the few steps to sit on the edge of her chaise longue.

"She seems…different….somehow, Belle. Take last night. I swear she dressed up for me. I don't remember the last time she made an effort with her appearance when it was just the two of us. And she _asked_ me to eat with her which was peculiar in itself. She usually does her best to avoid me. She usually takes her meals in her room so that she doesn't have to _see_ me. Do you think…" he stalled for a brief moment and then cleared his throat. "Do you think she might…care for me? Might she have fallen in love with me, just a tiny bit?"

But he could tell by the way she suddenly straightened her back that Belle was unconvinced by the innocence of his wife's antics. "And pigs might fly, darling. Not that you aren't easy to love…I mean…I mean, I'm sure most women, if they found themselves to be your wife, would fall in love with you. What's there not to love, honey? But her? I think she's incapable of loving anyone other than herself. I don't even think she really loves Mrs Wilkes' husband." She cleared her throat. "Are you completely sure that you haven't been cuckolded? That she hasn't been sharing her bed with Mr Wilkes and is now wanting you to sleep with her so that if she gets pregnant, you'll think the child is yours?"

Rhett tossed his head back and snorted, his jet black hair falling over one eye. He pushed the strands away. "She is manipulative and deceptive enough to do that but I know she hasn't…fornicated with Wilkes. She's only ever been emotionally unfaithful."

Belle looked disbelievingly at him. "That's not what they're saying," she said but then seeing her benefactor's expression, quickly amended. "I mean…you know her better than anyone honey. If you think she hasn't been physically unfaithful-"

"I _know_ she hasn't Belle."

Belle shrugged. She was looking at him tenderly, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. "So have you come here to tell me that-" She stopped suddenly and then her demeanour changed to one of seduction. He cringed inwardly as he wondered how he would get out of this, without hurting her.

She continued to stare at him for a few more seconds and then unhooked the two top eyelets of her wrapper. Then, she reached across to him and brushed some imaginary lint off his waistcoat. "Do you…do you want to go to bed, Rhett, now or later?" she whispered, nodding towards the room in her suite that contained the only four poster bed in the establishment.

He smiled, feeling like the biggest cad that had ever walked the earth. Why couldn't the same two people love each other? Why did Belle love him, he love his wife and his wife love Wilkes?

He tucked a stray red hair behind her ear and leaned in to kiss her forehead. "I think I'll go downstairs for a drink. I need a whisky. With ice. You have no ice up here." Her rouged lips turned up into a wry smile as she nodded and she put her arms defensively across her chest.

"Who would have thought that exercising your marital rights on two occasions would make you turn another woman down!" she said, trying to joke, but he heard the heaviness and pain in her voice and when he caught her eye, he saw it swim in water.

"Darling," he said, swallowing his guilt. "You have saved my sanity these last few months. Years even. But you know-"

Belle's brown eyes locked with his and then she raised her right hand to catch a tear from under her eye. She turned her back. "I know honey. I know that you love her," and then she choked out, as a half laugh, half sob, "Thank God I have never been in love!"

He walked towards her and held her in his arms. She didn't resist. He knew she was lying. She had never told him that she loved him - she hadn't needed to. He had _seen_ how she loved him. How she had always dropped everything to come to him if he came visiting, even going so far as to kicking out a client years ago who was only half dressed. He had guessed – correctly – that she had often fantasized how, in another life, they might have made a life together. _She _would have given him _all_ the children he had wanted

"So are you going to return your key?" she sniffed.

Rhett smiled kindly at her. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to hedge my bets, Belle. For all I know, my wife might have suffered some sort of concussion and she might wake up tomorrow and revert to her old self. Or maybe I have just dreamt the last couple of days." Belle tried to turn away from him again, tried to hide the tears lingering on her irises. But he didn't let her. Instead, he lifted her chin with his fingers and kissed her on her lips.

"Come on darling, I'll help you get dressed and then we can go down to the bar."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~S&R~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was five o'clock by the time he got back. The house was unusually quiet as he opened the front door. Most evenings, he would expect to hear one of the children screaming, however much his wife or Mammy tried to hush them up. He felt a change in the air, but he wasn't sure which direction it was now blowing.

He walked up the staircase, straining to hear the sound of splashing water as Mammy bathed Bonnie. Even in her increasingly infirm state, that had been the one chore she had insisted would not be delegated to any of the nannies he hired to look after his daughter. But there was no noise. Maybe his wife had taken the children out somewhere? he pondered and then laughed at the absurdity of the idea. She was probably still at the mills – where she spent every Friday afternoon. Why would today be any different? Unless she had decided to take a temporary leave of absence in order to stem the gossip. And the children had probably been fobbed off with Miss Melly.

He reached the top step and his eyes involuntarily glanced down towards her bedroom. The door was shut. Perhaps she was in the house after all. Maybe she hadn't been feeling well or was taking a nap. God knew, neither of them had slept much the last couple of nights. He walked towards her room and stopped outside, his hand poised to knock. But then he changed his mind, and replaced his hand in his pocket. He couldn't hear anything. Yes, she was either asleep or out.

He walked down the corridor and into his own room. He hadn't slept in here for two nights and it seemed darker than normal. The room was stifling, too, and had obviously not been aired at all during the day. He would have to have words with Mammy who would scold the appropriate servant. He strode over to one of the two sash windows and pulled it up and relished the cooler air on his face.

And then he heard them.

Wade, Ella and Beau were playing with three buckets of water in the garden, running around barefoot, on the grass, the boys with their trousers pushed up to their knees and Ella in a beige dress that she had worn all last summer and which, now, only fell to just below her knee. They were laughing and shrieking as they tried – and failed – to throw cups of water over each other.

He smiled, recalling similar pranks he had played as a child. It surprised him that Lou hadn't put a stop to the mischief. Or his wife. In fact, it surprised him that the children were unsupervised in the garden, without even one adult eye on them.

He loosened his cravat and turned but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of his wife. She was curled up on a blanket in the shade of the poplars that were clustered at the far end of the garden. And Bonnie was next to her. They seemed to be sleeping peacefully together, his daughter's dark curls smothering her mother's lap.

Suddenly, Ella's high pitched squeal pierced the air and his eyes swivelled back to the older children. Ella was lying face down in a flower bed with Wade and Beau standing guiltily over her.

"Mama," she cried as her sobbing grew more hysterical.

He saw Scarlett run from under the tree towards her eldest daughter, her cotton skirts billowing behind her. And then, as Scarlett reached the triumvirate of children, he heard her scold the boys while she scooped up Ella in her arms, dusted her off and carried her on her hip back towards Bonnie.

He moved away from the window, just as he heard the French doors, which led from the first floor ballroom onto the terrace, open and then slam shut. And then two pairs of footsteps race through the hallway and up the stairs.

He met them on the top landing. They were covered in dirt and their shirts were wet through.

"Hello Uncle Rhett," they both chimed, almost in unison.

"Hello boys," he replied. "Well, it looks like you've been having a lot of fun."

"We were but Ella's hurt herself," Beau offered, his beautiful blue eyes wide and guileless.

"Poor Ella. I better go and see if she is alright," Rhett said.

"Mother's with her," said Wade. "She's…er…not very happy with us." Rhett smiled. Wade was always one for honesty. "She told us we couldn't have any supper.

"I expect after your mother's calmed down, she'll relent. I'll talk to her. Why don't you both get cleaned up and…" he looked them up and down. "I'll ask Prissy to run a bath for you. I think you both need a good wash. "

They grinned at him and then scampered off towards the nursery.

Rhett walked down the staircase, through the vast hallway and into the kitchen where he found Prissy, sitting idly at the table. He ordered her to help the boys get cleaned up and then he walked out into the garden. His wife had begun walking towards the house, carrying Ella on her hip and holding Bonnie's hand, her little plump legs threshing like the hands of a windmill, trying to keep up with her mother.

He stood still and observed the scene for a few moments. They obviously hadn't seen him – Scarlett's head was bowed towards the ground - but he could hear both girls chattering away to their mother and Scarlett's own short and impatient responses to their infinite questions. She had on an old day dress that he hadn't seen her wear in years – not since before Bonnie was born. The colour – pale blue – flattered her and it didn't have the intricate piping or lace she had become so fond of and which he hated.

When she finally looked up and saw him she scowled and then stiffened her back.

"So you're home," she said icily. He stared at her for a few moments trying to understand which Scarlett he was dealing with. Certainly not the coy, seductress from last night or the wild woman of the night before. Or the eager to please woman from supper.

"I got back a few minutes ago," he replied and then he crouched down to gather their youngest daughter in his arms as she ran towards him.

He fawned over his princess until he felt the stony glare of her mother on him. He glanced back to where she stood.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked accusingly. Since _when_ had she cared where he went, what he did?

"Earning money, my pet, to keep you in the lifestyle you want to be kept in." She stared at him, as though she was trying to decipher whether he was lying. For several moments they stood stock still, both of them with their eyes fixed on each other. It was like one of those rare poker games he played when he couldn't be sure who was bluffing and who would fold first. He gripped his daughter tighter in his arms as she began to play with his cravat but he didn't take his eyes off his wife. She was so beautiful and he had been in her bed less than twelve hours ago. Maybe there was a God.

His wife broke first. She placed Ella down on the ground beside her. "Come on Ella. Let's get you changed into dry clothes," she said as she pulled the small arm along the pathway.

So she was just going to leave their conversation like that, was she? He had thought that the icy cocoon that she had wrapped around herself ever since she had told him she didn't want to sleep with him anymore had in part melted last night. He hadn't imagined it. He had been sure. But now, here she was, less than twenty four hours later, wrapping herself back in it. He felt his rage begin to simmer.

Instinctively, he grabbed her arm as she moved past him, forcing her to stop. Her emerald eyes glared fiercely at him. She was all fire. "Get your hands off me, Rhett," she hissed under her breath, just quiet enough so that Ella didn't hear.

But he didn't drop his grip. Instead, still holding onto his wife's arm, not caring that his grip was probably burning her skin, he crouched down to his step-daughter and kissed her on her forehead. She giggled and then Bonnie pulled her hair, forcing the giggle to turn into a cry. "Don't Bonnie, darling. You can't do that to your sister," he chastised gently. Then he turned back to Ella. "Ella, why don't you take Bonnie into the house and go up to the nursery. I'll be up shortly. I want to speak to your mother."

For a brief moment, he thought he saw panic sweep over his wife's face but then she merely shook her head and released Ella's hand. He watched as Ella and Bonnie walked towards the house and then Dilcey's turbaned head pop outside. She ushered them both inside, and swooped Bonnie up into her arms. The kitchen door closed and he turned back to Scarlett.

His heart had unexpectedly started racing again and he tried to still it by breathing deeply. Had his own cool demeanour evaporated during the nights they had spent together, too, as well as his resolve not to touch his wife?

"I had expected to find you out at the store. Or even the mills. What a pleasant surprise." His voice dripped with sarcasm but he actually meant it. When was his wife ever at home when he was at home?

"I changed my plans for today," she said curtly and he thought he saw a faint blush rise on her cheeks. He scrutinised her face some more and then his eyes swept over her body, down to her chest, down to her hands. She was ringing them abstractedly, in that way that he had learnt indicated nerves or discomfort.

"Scarlett, you seem angry with me. What are you accusing me of this time?"

"I had thought that you would be home today – for at least part of it."

He sucked in his breath as he suddenly realised the underlying accusation. Had his wife stayed home because she thought he would be home? Had she stayed home because she had wanted to spend time with him?

"Where have you been, Rhett?" she said coldly and then she sniffed. "I can smell liquor on you. Have you been with your whore? Am I…am I not enough for you?"

He clenched his fist and hoped that the emotion he was really feeling was not evident in his mien. He tried to sound casual. "I was at the bank and then I met George Whiting and René and we went for a drink or two at the Girl of the Period Saloon." She rarely talked to Sarah Whiting or Maybelle so it was unlikely she would verify his alibi. And thank God she had never been able to read him. If he had told her the truth, she would only have jumped to the wrong conclusions. And for some strange reason, he didn't think it was wise to laud his infidelities over her. It had only been two days. He needed to tread carefully.

"Oh," she said.

He exhaled. She believed him.

Another silence fell between them before she spoke again. "I thought…well…you see…" She closed her eyes, shook her head again and bit down onto her lip, in that saucy way of hers that made him want to do untold things to her. "Never mind."

She began to walk away from him. "I'm going to change for supper," she said over her shoulder, "Unless…unless… you are going out. In which case, I won't bother." He strode quickly towards her and then in front of her so that he was blocking her path.

And then all his resolve melted and he did what he had wanted to do as soon as he had seen her in the garden. He pulled her towards him, placed his mouth over hers and kissed her. He felt her body sway towards him and her arms go round his neck, dragging him closer. She had never been able to resist his kisses, even when she ought to have hated him. The night Atlanta fell and he abandoned her. The day of Frank's funeral. The night of Ashley's party. When he had _really _wanted to hurt her. His hands moved down her basque and he thought he heard her elicit a small groan. And then she twisted away took a step back and scowled at him.

"Rhett! Not here." She sounded breathless. "Not in front of the servants. Or the children."

"There's no one watching Scarlett. And I am in my garden in my own house and if I want to kiss my wife, I will," and he clasped her head between his hands and kissed her again and again her arms went round him. God, it felt so good to feel her like this! How had he managed to go so long – years – without touching her, without tasting her? Without listening to the sounds she made as her body surrendered to him?

"I want you Scarlett," he whispered into her hair when she had finally managed to break away. She stood panting in front of him, her beautiful face all flushed, her hair slightly mussed.

"Rhett, please," she managed to say. He could feel her heart racing. If they were in her bedroom, he would take her now, he wouldn't wait until it was dark. "You…can't… Not…not now."

"Tonight then?"

Her eyes flicked up towards his own. Could he detect desire on her face? Had he tasted her desire?

"Yes." She swallowed a couple of times and stumbled further away from him, trying to smooth her hair, her skirt. "Yes. Tonight. Later. After supper."

She turned on her heels and ran inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~S&R~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_A/N I always liked Belle. She had a good heart. I think she would understand that if Rhett started sleeping with Scarlett again, that he wouldn't come to her any more. That's why she's slightly bitter, vituperish, weepy in this chapter._

_I think I have maximum three more chapters left. I want to write a confrontation between Ashley and Rhett. Why the hell didn't Rhett threaten Ashley or do something?_


End file.
